Bambizilla is real and he's coming for us

It took 77 years, but Bambi and his mother are finally getting their revenge.

(Hold your breath . . . Brace yourself . . .)

We now are under threat from ZOMBIE DEER.

Seems funny, right? Ha ha ha ha.

Oh yeah zombie deer. Good one!

Well, you can laugh until Bambizilla eats you alive as your horrified family members scramble to safety, knowing that they, too, are doomed.

This is no joke. Zombie deer are a real thing.

As of last month, zombie deer were in 24 states and scientists have warned that the disease that causes the zombification (my word) could make the jump into humans. That, of course, can only happen if (and this part they didn't say, but I presume is true) the deer don't KILL US FIRST.

Now some background: The zombie illness is called chronic wasting disease and, like me, it's been around since the 1960s. Scientists say the disease is spread by the zombie-like pathogenic proteins that aren’t alive and can’t be killed.

Read that again.

THEY AREN'T ALIVE. THEY CAN'T BE KILLED.

In an infected animal, those pathogenic proteins eat away at the brain, causing symptoms that resemble dementia and eventually lead to death. After which, presumably (an opinion informed by watching "The Walking Dead"), the deer wander the Earth, seeking any kind of meat. Including humans.

When outbreaks come, the zombification is almost impossible to stop because, again, THE THINGS THAT CAUSE IT AREN'T ALIVE. They're zombies.

Scientists say that the prions turn the brains of the deer into "swiss cheese," which seems like it would be tasty with venison. Not in this case.

The zombie disease is similar to Mad Cow disease, the inspiration for the 1990s sitcom "Mad (Cow) About You," starring Paul Reiser, Helen Hunt and their pet cow. The fear is that humans will eat the deer and become more like Paul Reiser . . . wait a second, that's wrong. The fear is that the humans will become INFECTED WITH THE ZOMBIE DEER DISEASE.

It hasn't happened yet, but we've seen the movies. It will happen. And in all likelihood, the zombie deer will first come for us, knowing that we deserve it because not only have we joyfully eaten venison for years, we watched "Mad (Cow) About You" and laughed.

However, if you're looking for good news, there is some.

A map of the areas where Bambizillas were found shows that none have been found west of eastern Utah, about 800 miles from Solano County. Some quick research shows that cows walk at about 2 mph. Assuming they'd walk no more than 12 hours a day, that means it would take a minimum of 33 days to make the trip to Solano–and they have to cross the Sierra Nevada.

The bad news? When there's an outbreak in movies, it can quickly become an extinction event.

Am I saying deer will kill us all?

Am I saying it's inevitable that we will end up hiding from the walking dead of deer?

Am I saying that Bambizilla will get his revenge against all of us?

No. Not necessarily.

I am saying if it happens, we kind of deserve it for watching "Mad (Cow) About You" in the 1990s and laughing.

Bambizilla is coming.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Memories of our longtime pet and partner, Brandy

Brandy Stanhope was born on the first day of 2008. She died March 4, an 11-year-old who lived a full life of love.

Brandy was my dog. And, for many years, my sidekick.

"My dog died" columns are standard issue for writers, including me. About 15 years ago, I wrote about the death of our beloved Vida. Virtually everyone with a keyboard will memorialize their pet. Heck, John Grogan wrote about his dog Marley and ended up with a novel and movie.

Brandy gets mentioned here not only because she was a great dog, but because she was a regular part of my column and occasionally "sat in" for me while I was "on vacation." A few readers have a passing interest in her.

Brandy's death wasn't a surprise. Like many dogs – particularly larger dogs (she was a Weimaraner, weighing about 70 pounds) – she stayed a puppy seemingly forever, then went through a quick descent. When Mrs. Brad and I moved from our longtime Suisun City home to Walnut Creek last summer, we left Brandy to live with our son and daughter-in-law, who bought our home. We all knew she was near the end, because she was almost 11.

In February, her health slipped. In March, she died – eight days after we drove up to see her. Brandy wasn't eating. She had low energy. She got old fast.

I took her to the vet for her final visit on a Monday morning and sat on the floor with her as she slipped away.

Then I went to my car, texted my sons and wife and cried.

For her first nine years, I took Brandy for daily runs – me riding a bike, her running alongside. People would ask what breed she was (a greyhound?) as we ran on Sunset Avenue or on the path along Highway 12.

I left her in charge of the house when I would go to work ("You're in charge, Brandy. Don't let anything happen and have a good day.").

Mrs. Brad and I took her on walks and took her on vacations, including some amazing trips to Trinity County when Brandy went on hikes into the wilderness, running double the length of our trek, since she ran ahead and behind constantly.

Our sons were teenagers when Brandy came along and in a short time, she endeared herself to them and their friends.

Brandy loved people. Desperately. She would howl when she heard someone come home, acting as if she'd been alone for months. Weimaraners are weird that way.

This is no breaking news: Dogs love us unconditionally. Dogs make us laugh and comfort us when we're sad. Dogs are tied to memories.

Brandy will always be the dog who was smart and desperate for attention. She will always be the dog who could run faster than I could ride a bike.

Brandy will also always be a dog that was smart enough to figure out how doors worked, despite our repeated efforts to stump her.

She's also the last dog we'll have. Our new home doesn't really make sense for a pet, so Brandy retires as family champion.

She was loving, smart, energetic and loyal. Now we know how she felt when we left her behind, except she's not coming  home at the end of the workday.

Brandy's gone and the old saying is true: It's impossible to forget a dog that gave you so much to remember.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

My sure-thing pitch for an 'Uno' movie

Mattel is one of two American brands that dominate the toy market – last year, the company earned $4.5 billion, narrowly trailing Hasbro, which earned $4.6 billion. Despite that, Mattel is missing something: Movies.

Transformers is a Hasbro toy and a movie franchise. So are Battleship and G.I. Joe. Mattel has no significant movie franchises.

Until now.

The company recently announced it will launch a Barbie movie franchise, which is easy to envision. Same thing with Hot Wheels. Those movies will be big!

But Mattel is going beyond that. Are you ready for films about the View-Master?  How about Uno?

Yes. Finally. A movie about Uno.

Seem crazy? Maybe, but fortunately for Mattel, I've done some of the hard work with my screenplay script, which I now submit for your review:

INT: LIVING ROOM – EVENING

Family sits in a circle, playing cards. The youngest, 5-year-old MAX is excited. Older sister MINNIE and parents MOM and DAD also sit, not as excited. Minnie lays down a card, leaving her with three cards.

MAX

Uno!

MINNIE

I have three cards. You don't do that until there's just one.

MAX

Not true! Read the rules!

Minnie sighs and picks up two additional cards as camera pulls back to show both parents checking their watches. The film is set in the era before cellphones.

MAX

It's your turn, Mom!

Mom plays a 5, then a 3. Close-in shot shows she has only two cards left. Mom picks up a card. And another card and another card.

MAX

You can play an eight!

MOM

Nope. That's Crazy Eights, not Uno, dummy!

Mom, Dad and Minnie all throw their heads back, laughing. Mom finally gets a red 6 and plays it. Now it's Dad's turn. Dad plays a red 4.

MAX

Uno!

DAD

I have two cards.

MAX

But you will play that other card and only have one! You have to pick two cards! It's in the rules! Another rule is that my lines all end with exclamation marks!

DAD

The rules are . . .

MAX

You have to pick two cards! No fair! Quit cheating!

Camera pans to Mom, Dad and Minnie, all of whom roll their eyes. Inexplicably, the theme from "Dr. Zhivago" begins to play, followed by "Danger Zone." Dad picks two cards. Music fades.

MAX

This is fun! You had to pick cards! Now it's my turn!

Max plays a red 2, then a green 2, then a green 7.

MAX

Uno!

MINNIE

It's not time yet. You still have three cards.

MAX

I won't in a minute.

Max plays a blue 7 and a blue 5. He now has one card.

MAX

See? I have Uno  now! I was right!

MINNIE

But that's not the . . .

Max plays a Wild Draw 4 card, jumps up and begins to dance as the "Zhivago" theme returns. Scenes of horses pulling sleighs across the Russian snow are mixed with scenes of Max dancing.

MAX

I win! And you have to pick up four cards!

MINNIE

No, the game is over.

MAX

No fair! I gave her a pick-four wild card! She has to pick it! And I still have exclamation marks after everything I say! No fair!

Camera pans to show Mom, Dad and Minnie. Then zooms in on Max, moving closer, closer, closer. The lights flicker, then go out. In the dark, a blood-curdling scream. The lights come back on and Max is gone. Mom, Minnie and Dad sit in a circle.

DAD

Guess how many kids we have now?

MOM AND MINNIE

Uno!

The three of them unhinge their jaws, laughing. After a minute  of uninterrupted laughter – enough to make the audience uncomfortable – there's a knock at the door. Minnie looks at her parents, gets up and answers as the camera follows from behind. She opens the door to see a Magic 8 ball. Camera zooms in to show the words "Signs point to yes."

MINNIE

Noooooooooooo!

Camera fades to black and screen shows in white letters: COMING SUMMER 2020: UNO DOS: MAGIC 8 BALL, THE MOVIE.

You're welcome, Mattel.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Emoji additions add to confusion with communication

Someday, you'll regret using emojis. You'll regret texting that winking smiley face. You'll regret Tweeting the unicorn. You'll regret trusting an organization called the Unicode Consortium.

The Unicode Consortium? Yes that's the organization that approves new emojis. Is there anything more 2019 than that?

The Unicode Consortium (which sounds like either a scary multinational organization bent on world domination or a 1975 disco band) recently announced the approval of 59 new emoji (that's the plural) for 2019. Among the new emojis are an otter, ballet shoes, a yawning face and some long-overdue emojis for disabled people (including people in wheelchairs, guide dogs and an ear with a hearing aid).

While some of those may be overdue, I consider the new emojis hurtful. Because I consider all emojis hurtful.

It's just a way to pretend to say something while really using other people's words or images. And as I have written before – and will undoubtedly write again – there is a system for communicating with symbols and images. It's called written words.

The first emoji set was released in 1997 (I presume it had some "Seinfeld" and NSync emojis). Every year, there are new ones, allowing people to further confuse me.

The update increased the emoji count to 3,053, meaning there are more emojis than the career record for NFL points, NBA 3-pointers or baseball RBIs. There are more emoji than parking spots at the Solano Town Center mall, for crying out loud!

It's an emoji overload and the danger in the ever-increasing emoji universe is that it will just lead to more people using symbols to represent what they think, rather than using, you know . . .  words.

A confession: If you gave me truth serum, I would admit that a good part of my dislike of emoji is that people will text me a message with an emoji and I can't tell what it is. "I see hands," I mumble, "But what are they doing? Is that a finger pointing at me? Are the hands praying? IS THAT PERSON FLIPPING ME OFF?"

People start walking away from me.

I fear that some day, we'll live in a world where people no longer know how to write or  speak. The emoji people will have conquered the world and will limit communication for the remaining humans to emoji.

Which will be limited by the all-powerful Unicode Consortium.

If I'm alive then (odds are strongly against that), I'll be easy to find. I'll be the last man on Earth speaking – and I'll be shouting, "IS THAT PERSON FLIPPING ME OFF?"

Then I'll look around, realize I need to be quiet and start seeking an emoji of a man shaking his fist at a passing cloud.

Fight the power!

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.